


Of Freedom and Treason

by Marsbarss



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe-Lost Revolution, Bipolar Disorder, Charles Has Issues, Charles Lee-centric, F/M, Human Disaster Charles Lee, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other characters to appear later, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, oh boy angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 18:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15370713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marsbarss/pseuds/Marsbarss
Summary: The revolution was lost. It wasn’t due to some last minute strategic genius on part of the British forces, though that was what dealt the final blow to the dying men. The revolution was lost far before the army was routed and Washington was captured and executed. The rebels dug their own grave. Their grave was dug in the constant infighting. The tension between forces commanded by the generals, all of which had different ideas on how to win the war. Infighting was the worst sickness that could overtake an army or a movement. It crumbled a force faster than anything. Starving and desperate men were more prone to agitation which led to the want, the need to blame someone for their suffering. It made them turn against one another. The generals argued, the soldiers argued. None of them spoke their opinion as loudly and or as obnoxiously as Major General Charles Lee.Charles Lee is at the center of a chaotic ending of the revolutionary war, and must deal with the consequences of his actions, while his comrades just try to survive.





	Of Freedom and Treason

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty angst heavy au and I'm unsure about it but please comment your thoughts so far or give suggestions!

The revolution was lost. It wasn’t due to some last minute strategic genius on part of the British forces, though that was what dealt the final blow to the dying men. The revolution was lost far before the army was routed and Washington was captured and executed. The rebels dug their own grave. Their grave was dug in the constant infighting. The tension between forces commanded by the generals, all of which had different ideas on how to win the war. Infighting was the worst sickness that could overtake an army or a movement. It crumbled a force faster than anything. Starving and desperate men were more prone to agitation which led to the want, the need to blame someone for their suffering. It made them turn against one another. The generals argued, the soldiers argued. None of them spoke their opinion as loudly and or as obnoxiously as Major General Charles Lee.

No one could defeat Lee in a contest of shouting opinions really REALLY loudly until someone gives in. It was a gift. A gift that was a constant migraine for Washington, especially on one night a week before the fall. 

The army was camped south of Yorktown, and the generals met that night, to discuss their plans. Washington went over the locations each of his generals was to be stationed at, the order in which they would strike and where, along with any other needed details. Lee didn’t like it. He despised the plan, and made it known. 

“Storming Yorktown is a suicide mission!” He scoffed and glared, arms crossed tightly against his chest. He was no young upstart like Hamilton or Laurens or Tallmadge. He knew ambition and hated where it could lead. And in this case, it was clear to Lee that it would lead to death if the continental army continued to dream too big. “If we are all dead, who will there be to deal with the rest of the redcoat army? There’s no way this is going to work! And when they string us up, life for the citizens will only get worse.”

Lafayette let out a small sound of disapproval, with a look to match and was ready to fire back when another general beat him to it. 

Nathaniel Greene rolled his eyes with contempt and a harsh glare fixed on the shorter man. “General Lee, we are quite aware that you disagree with General Washington’s plan. We have come this far and now we are close to ending this, however. Yorktown will be ours and the war will be over soon after.” 

Washington only regarded Charles with a look most would interpret as anger. Charles knew there was some sadness behind it.

“Yes, it is about to end.” Charles agreed grimly, his frown only deepening and mind darkening. He didn’t meet the gaze of anyone in the tent. He knew it was fruitless to try and convince Washington to turn back now, but the regret setting into his mind was worse than the fear he felt gnawing away at his being. He had been afraid since the war started. It was something he had come to be used to, the fear that now ruled his life. He hadn’t been so afraid before, not in any of the wars or battles or duels. Not any of the times his life was threatened. He had survived avalanches, earthquakes, three wars, and the political climate of his home country, and yet this is what terrified him, shook him to his very core. 

It was possible, perhaps, in his aging he was getting softer, though he doubted it. He was as much of an apathetic ass as he was twenty years ago. He had always gone into battle without a drip of concern for his safety or others. He was a man with resolve back then, who saw what he needed to do and then did it. Now, however, battle made him shake with an anxiety. The smell of powder made his stomach twist and caused him to become lightheaded. The sound of gunshots and cannon fire made him jumpy and on edge. His hands shook now when he held his gun, and his aim was off. His depressive episodes were deeper now, and his manic episodes stronger than ever. He was agitated and aggressive lately, on the cusp of what was sure to be a horrid episode of depression. All because of yet another of a long series of mistakes. Charles was used to making mistakes by now.

Four nights prior, he had an hour of passion after three hours of heated debate and fighting. Three nights prior he had sent a message across enemy lines. Two nights prior, while drunk, he had nearly beaten another soldier for insulting him. One night prior he read masses of unsent letters, and wept. Now, he was more on edge. He knew this wouldn’t work. Washington’s plan would fail. Washington would be dead in a week’s time. His body would likely be paraded and whomever captured him would receive a promotion. Charles’ only hope was that he would join him in death when the time came.

Death, that would be something. Charles contemplated it often, and now as he exited the tent, after offering a half hearted ‘good night’ to his fellow generals, he contemplated it once more. The concept of dying always unnerved Charles. What actually did happen when someone died? Sleep had been lost over the question in the past. Once he discussed it at length with King Stanislaus of Poland for hours on end, from the moment he awoke from a nightmare until the sun was rising and the two had breakfast together. He wasn’t a particularly devout man, so he didn’t have certainty of a heaven or hell, though he was sure if they existed he would be joining the damned in hell. It was only a right punishment, he mused, for all the shit he’d done.

Charles wondered what hell would be like as he dragged his feet back towards his tent. He’d probably fit in among his fellow blasphemers, alcoholics, and sex addicts. Maybe he could befriend Satan, or bang Satan, whichever. Hell would be boring if he didn’t try to at least. He always appreciated a challenge. Plus, if the Christians were right and sodomites all went to hell, he wouldn’t have any problem finding someone to suck his dick. Charles shoulders were slumped as he thought, his musings of finding a hook up in hell not even managing to pull him out of his mood. The general looked rather pathetic, like a kicked dog, as he stalked across the camp in the darkness. His uniform was more like a ball and chain than a sign of pride. 

The soldiers around him were tense, he could tell. They ince would have been merry at night, sitting around fires and talking, laughing. Now most of them kept to themselves or formed their own factions within their units, too willing to fight the other little groups. The morale around camp was suffering greatly lately. His own men picked too many fights with Washington’s men. Many soldiers glared at their fellows, a lot just drank and prayed to live through the war. Whether they were conscious of it or not, they all knew to some level that the revolution was doomed. How could these men fight a battle if they didn’t trust one another? Though, Charles supposed he had a part in that. He played the pawns against each other. He wasn’t the only one who disapproved of Washington’s tactics. Most who did were simply scared. There were more than a few deserters. Charles always thought deserters the worst of the worst, but he hadn’t the heart to ever go after them now. Maybe they were wiser than him, getting out before it was too late. Then again, they had things to live for, he didn’t. Deserting didn’t do much for a dead man. Plus, all that would do is make two armies that wanted to execute him.

The moon couldn’t be seen, hidden among clouds, as if it couldn’t bear the sight. 

Charles couldn’t bear it either.

He slipped into his tent and fell into another nightmare filled sleep.

 

Elizabeth sat in candlelight, rereading letters from her dearest Alexander. She must have read them all a million times over, but with him gone at war, she missed him dearly. Her left hand rubbed her stomach, round with child, as she smiled softly at the papers laid out before her. She kept every letter Alexander sent since the very first he’d ever written her. He was always wonderful with words. 

It was late and she had intended to go to bed an hour ago, but had gotten wrapped up in the letters. She had made a routine of reading them before bed every night, and then writing her own to send to him, when she wasn’t waiting for his next reply. She had sent one a day ago, and was already impatient for his response. She loved him completely, and every letter was another reminder of why she loved him. His words were so passionate, from his declarations of his devotion to her, to the sections where he ranted on about the state of the war. She was able to tell whenever he was particularly stressed, based on the quality of writing, state of the parchment, and amount of smears of ink. In his last letter, he promised he would be home soon.

Elizabeth wrote to him of how things were in New York, of her pregnancy, and of anything and everything else. She described the flowers she was growing in her garden. She wrote of an incident that happened with the neighbors and a cat. She told him about whatever her family was up to at the time, reassuring him that she was fine and that she missed and loved him. She offered advice when she felt it reasonable, and consolidated him when his letters were melancholy. 

She was worried for him. For them. The war was only escalating, and it terrified her everytime she thought of it. She couldn’t get the image of Alexander, shot dead, out of her mind. She reminded herself that it was Alexander Hamilton she was married to, and he could do anything he set his mind to. Nothing could extinguish his flame. He was passionate, more so than anyone in the continental army. He would live. He had to live.

Elizabeth sighed with contentment as she finally changed into her nightgown and blew out the candles in her room, retiring to bed with an equal measure of love and worry in her heart.

 

There was talk in New York, talk of the impending doom of the rebel army. Hercules Mulligan pretended not to hear when redcoats and politicians gossiped so in Townsend’s bar, humming as he took his drink. “A storm’s brewing it seems, may god help us all.” Hercules smiled towards Robert, “Have you heard from our mutual friend? I hope his cabbage crop is doing well this season.” He inquired, downing what was his second drink of the night. Hercules, tailor, spy, eccentric and gleeful in his pleasures, was far different from Townsend, who was reserved and serious, harsh in the way in which a man has no pleasure at all. No pleasure but the cause of liberty and revenge. Hercules admired Robert for his commitment. 

“Last I heard his crop was as miserable as last year.” Robert said, keeping his reply short as a table of officers called him over for another round. He gave Hercules a measured look, and moved to serve the men.

Hercules grinned “Their next round’s on me!” He laughed boisterously. He had repaired the uniforms of or tailored coats for many of the officers at the table. “To king and country!” He cheered and dropped a pouch of money on the bar counter before lifting his tankard.

“To king and country!” Some of the drunker officers yelled, the rest offering enthusiastic smiles or laughs. 

Hercules played his game well. He got up. “Well, my friends, it is time I head out! I have an overwhelming number of orders to get to tomorrow! Good evening, gents, enjoy your ale.” He tipped his hat towards the other bar patrons and sauntered out into the night. The bag of coin he’d left Townsend contained a note.

 

Information on the British’s plans didn’t reach Tallmadge until a week later, too late for Washington to escape the snares of the trap that was set. The fighting had already begun hours prior. So far, it seemed as if the continentals had the advantage. However, Benjamin now knew they wouldn’t for long. He rushed to Washington’s side as swiftly as his old warhorse would carry him.

“Washington! Sir, It’s a trap. We’ve been betrayed.” His voice was shaky and desperate. He knew this would happen! He knew they had a traitor within Washington’s inner circle. The continental forces were closing in on the city…

It was too late. 

Benjamin knew it, and whatever Washington was thinking, he knew it was too late as well. At the sight of British reinforcements, chaos erupted among the ranks. There were deserters, and there were traitors who stabbed their own comrades, to run to the British to beg amnesty. There were loyal tories among their ranks who made themselves known now, as in one swift moment, two of their rebel generals were shot by their own aides and three other officers pledged their forces to the British, turning on their fellow rebels.

On another battlefield, French Warships were gunned down and surrounded. Flames took the sky hostage and the sea ran red with blood. 

The British knew every one of their battle plans. All of their troop movements, where every general would be. They knew where to prod and where to cut. They knew whose forces were weakened by the constant infighting, they knew which officers they could coax to their side.

Benjamin watched in utter horror. 

What was a promising battle soon became a slaughter.


End file.
